


Bombs, Blood, and Baby Bottles

by delfiend



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6554362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delfiend/pseuds/delfiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a more or less a place to post short little snippets of writing involving Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran and their misadventures of trying to raise the Moriarty brothers from my work "Case of the Psychopath's Son". While these can be read as stand-alone peices of writing, they are meant to fill in the gaps of my existing story. Enjoy! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bombs, Blood, and Baby Bottles

“Well this is new,” Moran mused, voice bitter like the coffee the interrupted his words, sipped gingerly, freshly brewed, hot as the anger that smoldered carefully concealed inside the man. “You disappear for a week and return with a baby.”

“Relax Sebastian,” Moriarty tsked as he stirred a ridiculous amount of sugar into his cup of aromatic caffeine, voice oozing like silk to appease the unhappy sniper. “It takes girls a little longer than a week to have your baby after you’ve been with her.”

Moran scoffed, a sound which seemed more frustrated than offhand. “So what? Who’s to say you didn’t sneak off nine months ago to put that baby in some unlucky girl just to return for it now?”

“ _You_ are,” Moriarty rolled his eyes, clinking his spoon twice upon the edge of his cup before setting it aside, sipping as he eyed the scarred man from over the edge of the mug.

Moran set his cup down with a little more force than he would have liked, bright blue eyes like a sunlit sea burning blue fire at his boss and lover. “You _did_ sneak off nine months ago.”

Moriarty frowned indignantly mid-sip, cup coming to rest on the table. “Did not.”

Moran threw up his hands, falling back into his seat, arms crossed menacingly across his chest. “You sneak off all the _fucking_ time without a word to me as to where you’re going and when you’ll be back. Remember that stunt on top of Saint Bart’s?”

Now it was Moriarty’s turn to be exasperated, shrugging defensively. “Look, I’m sorry, okay!? How many times-…!?”

“I understand,” Moran sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight as he fought to find some peace to quench his anger. “I understand that you need to leave every now and again, and be secret about it. It’s your job. I get it. What I _don’t_ get,” He paused to breathe in steadily, voice growing more enraged despite his efforts. “Is why you brought a baby back with you.”

“Not just any baby,” Jim shook his head, a small smile coming ill-timed to his face. “My baby.”

In the silence that followed, in which Moran froze how he was, free hand clenching tight into a fist below the table, Jim hopped up from his spot, practically waltzing over to the baby that crawling about the floor, chewing on whatever it could get its chubby little hands around. He scooped him up, holding him above his head and grinning goofily.

“Look at ‘im, Seb!” Jim cooed. “Our little killer-to-be!”

“You have to raise it first,” Moran growled, eyeing the baby with loathing. “Feed it. Change it. Wake up in the middle of every night to stop its screaming. Keep it from killing itself every waking moment.”

Moriarty brought the baby back down into his arms, tickling his feet as he turned to eye his sniper disinterestedly. “Oh please. Ms. Adler did the majority of that for us. She says he’s walking now. Sometimes. And talking, too. It’s only a matter of time before his little arms will be able to aim a gun. Got to put one in his hands first, though.”

He approached Moran idly, bouncing the small boy. “And that’s where _you_ come in, Sebbie.”

Next thing Moran knew, the baby was in his lap, squirming and twisting to right himself, managing to sit and look up at him, eyes and icy blue, hair black with a curl to it. Moran frowned.

“You sure this one’s yours?” He ventured quietly.

Moriarty scoffed. “Of course he’s mine. I took him.”

“No, I mean… _yours_ yours.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Moran!” Moriarty rolled his eyes, gathering the bits and pieces of his outfit from where they had scattered earlier upon his arrival home. “I think I’d know my own kid when I saw it.”

“Yeah, you’d think…” Moran sighed to himself, wiggling a finger at the small boy, which was promptly held captive in his tiny but strong little hand. “What are we calling him then..?”

Moriarty shrugged, tossing his suit coat over his shoulder with one hand as he read through new texts with his other, making for the door. “I dunno. Junior probably.”

“His mom didn’t give him a name..?”

“I’m sure she did, but you don’t see me giving two fucks.”

“Language, Jim!” Moran scolded, hands cupping over the baby’s ears. “We’ve got a baby around now! They’re like parrots, repeating anything they hear!”

“Hope he doesn’t hear us in the bedroom, then,” Moriarty winked as he threw open the door. “Ciao, Sebbie! See you tonight!”

The door shut before Moran could ask a single question more, leaving the battered sniper with the rosy-cheeked baby boy.

“Junior, eh?” Moran mumbled quietly to the kid, sighing as he decided to gnaw on his scarred hand. “We can’t go around calling you Junior. No one will ever give you a lick of respect.”

The sniper sat musing a while longer, oblivious to the drool coating his hand. “How ‘bout just J then, huh? It’s short, sweet, and to the point. Like you ought to be as a killer-to-be. What do you think..?”

The small boy cooed, head tipping further forward to rest on Moran’s chest, eyes fluttering shut. Moran smiled, stroking the boy’s curls with his drool-free hand.

“Sleep tight little J. You’ve got some big shoes to grow into.”

Another soft coo.

Moran smiled. “Alright, his shoe size _is_ a little below average, you caught me. But it’s a metaphor you know-..? Oh, right, suppose you don’t…”

 


End file.
